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It’s Sunday evening. Typically that means I’m shifting gears to the week ahead and working through a mental list of deadlines, projects, forgotten tasks from the previous week and anticipated conflicts to sort out over the coming five days.

This Sunday, my mind isn’t going through any of those things. It had done so last week. I was ready for my Monday — so I thought. A 5:37 a.m. text from a colleague and dear friend shattered my sense of priorities. His grown son, Tyler, was dead. Depression and despair had overpowered this magnificent human who gave so much to those around him. One week later, I’m not inclined to think much about work this evening. My heart remains wounded by the sadness of it all and my mind is full with worries about those among us who are struggling right now.

Over the years, I’d met Tyler a few times and heard many stories from his father about his creativity, warmth and desire to make others laugh. Tyler was the kind of person we all need in our lives. He was charming. He didn’t judge. He was safe and inclusive. He sought to lift up those around him.

I remember agreeing to help him with a mock interview several years ago when he was a student. It was a class project. He sat across from my desk and I did my level best to intimidate him. I’m nice, but I have a knack for making people squirm when it suits. He was so earnest. Every raised eyebrow from me was met with a huge smile, reflection on the point I’d made and modest examples of his readiness, skills or fit for the role. It was hard for me to keep a stern and assessing face. He was so modest that I felt like shaking him at the trunk to dislodge the ripe fruit I sensed he had to offer the world.

Tyler was one of the humans you liked instantly and, predictably, would give you much more than he’d ever ask for in return. Why is this so often the case with those we lose to the greedy disease depression?

Attending his visitation yesterday and observing the clusters of friends and loved ones united in unspeakable grief, it all felt so wrong. So unnecessary. How did it come to this? How could a world that needs Tyler so desperately feel like a place where Tyler was unable to remain? I write this knowing Tyler’s name could be swapped out with that of countless others lost to suicide and the question would still fit.

Suicide is not foreign to me. In recent years, I’ve lost a close family member and several friends and acquaintances to despair. Most were complete surprises. One was not and I’ll forever regret not acting on my gut’s concerns that something was very wrong.

With the exception of one portion of my life, I’ve never experienced suicidal ideation. The closest I’ve come to understanding a dark pit of hopelessness was when I was very ill for reasons that had yet to be understood. My body was failing me in several categories and the medications doctors were throwing at the symptoms made me sicker.

I remember sitting silently on the stairs in my foyer wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear as my house buzzed with the sounds of my family’s activities. It was a beautiful sunny day. I was staring at my reflection in the mirror that hangs at the base of the stairs and not recognizing the person looking back. I had lost 20 pounds in a matter of weeks. My energy was waning. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t play with my kids. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t handle a shower. I couldn’t swallow food. Everything hurt. I felt like a spectator and burden. Imagining another month on that trajectory, let alone a lifetime, was overwhelming. My husband found me there and offered encouraging words, which I ignored. They felt hollow. I don’t even recall them for the purpose of giving him credit in this post.

Fortunately, my world turned around not long after that wretched moment. I found the right doctor, got a diagnosis and began an appropriate treatment for an incurable, yet manageable, autoimmune condition. I now had hope for a better future. Hope is a powerful medicine for the mind. Hope can light up the darkest spaces.

It scares me to think about how different my world view felt back then and how difficult it made things like caring, trying and believing. As a woman who typically has a deep well of optimism, I was ready to wave the white flag and accept things wouldn’t get better. Though I don’t think I would have gotten to the point of actively ending my life, I could see myself passively letting it leave me.

I only had to sit with dark feelings for a matter of months. Imaging needing to do so for years, even decades, is humbling. My attitude about suicide, more specifically those battling depression, has evolved since my brief encounter with despair. I don’t need to experience clinical depression to know we aren’t giving this disease enough attention.

Whatever leads people to suicide, I’m certain nothing about despair is selfish, weak, easy or absent of caring for others. The strength exhibited by those who push through it with the hope of a better tomorrow is incredible. Additionally, like with any illness, well-intended advice and promises of a brighter future aren’t enough to make the disease behave in a fashion that is compatible with life. Depression isn’t an attitude problem. It’s a health problem that requires a clear understanding of the underlying cause and an effective treatment plan.

I have no answers or wise words to offer at the moment. Questions dominate. Perhaps they should. Perhaps the disease of depression, too often discussed in the shadows, requires us to ask more of ourselves and others about mental health. Maybe bringing the disease out into the light will be enough to help those who are having trouble bringing light into their lives.

What I do know is that the world is less bright without Tyler and others who have left us too soon. I wish I had a magic wand to cast a spell of relief over those currently suffering, to offer a reprieve from the pain that is less extreme than the permanence of death, so we can retain your light in our lives. I suspect the magic spell would be some combination of love, patience, kindness, acceptance and chemistry. That’s a combination we might all benefit from experimenting with.

If you are struggling with depression and contemplating suicide, please consider calling the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255 or visiting your local hospital’s emergency room.